


he said, he said

by nerdygaycas



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Credence is a fiery virgin, First Meetings, Fluff and Smut, Graves likes poetry, M/M, Oral Sex, Original Percival Graves is a Softie, POV Credence Barebone, Wooing, shameless percival tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 11:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11274696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdygaycas/pseuds/nerdygaycas
Summary: They did not speak, for the most part of the evening, their shared glances simmering a near tangible substance in the space stretching and coiling between them, but just before leaving, he had walked up to Credence with resolve to introduce himself.“Percival Graves,” he had said in a voice deep and lightly rugged. The pitch Credence recognized too well, but the manner in which the words were spoken differed. The real Percival was freshly ground coffee, unfiltered and rich, overpowering.//Three years after the subway incident, Credence meets the real Percival Graves at a MACUSA charity ball, and sparks ignite.





	he said, he said

The bouquet of blood red carnations arrived with a neatly-folded piece of paper: a note, written with calligraphic elegance. It read,

 

_Crippled all good judgement by your striking beauty, and with no desire to mean you disrespect, I dare say you are the most exquisite creature I’ve ever seen._

_I confess, meeting you last week, after what seems like an eternity, was a most delightful honor. Now I regret these past three years, lost to unfamiliarity and silence, and I wish we could make up for it. Dinner would be a nice start._

_If you consider my behavior unacceptable and my proposition too bold, please do feel free, Mr. Barebone, to throw away the flowers, and burn this paper to ashes._

_If, however, you are interested, send me a letter to MACUSA indicating the time and date most convenient for you._

 

There was no signature at the end of the note, but Credence did not need a name to identify its author. Precisely seven days ago, he had attended one of MACUSA’s charity balls as Tina’s plus-one, and there, conversing placidly with Madame President, looking infinitely more stunning that he remembered, the ghost that still haunted him.

Mr. Graves.

Except the man he once called such was no more than a gruesome fraud, an artist of scheme and deception. This man wasn’t. He carried himself differently, with a certain regal air to his long strides, a well-versed propriety guiding every gesture, and he smiled: amused little sideway grins and ample, mirthful beams at jests told by his colleagues.

Everyone seemed enchanted by him, and people orbited in his wake, pulled in by his innate gravity. He stood surefooted right where he belonged, inside the great walls of MACUSA, a preeminent force to be reckoned with.  

And yet, despite the flock of admirers that engaged his attention all night, his eyes never strayed too long from Credence, even from across a room full of people.

He was not Grindelwald, he was better. He was good.

They did not speak, for the most part of the evening, their shared glances simmering a near tangible substance in the space stretching and coiling between them, but just before leaving, he had walked up to Credence with resolve to introduce himself.

“Percival Graves,” he had said in a voice deep and lightly rugged. The pitch Credence recognized too well, but the manner in which the words were spoken differed. The real Percival was freshly ground coffee, unfiltered and rich, overpowering. 

And then, in spite of the prying eyes of those around them, Percival had taken Credence’s hand in his, lifted it with care to his lips, and deposited a solitary, chivalrous kiss on its back.

Though many days had passed since that audacious, if knightly, gesture, Credence still reddened at the memory, drunk on embarrassment at having being rendered speechless by the man’s touch.  

He had fled shortly after, but not before making a fool of himself by stumbling over his own name. Heat had licked at his nape, and trailed down the curve of his spine, eager to plunge southward, and make a mess of his newly-acquired trousers.

His plain gracelessness and abrupt departure would have offended anyone, but Percival, it seemed, did not mind. If the words on the note were sincere, Percival liked Credence. Maybe even as much as Credence, to his own disbelief, liked him.

Credence took deep lungfuls to quieten the frantic beating of his heart before fetching a sheet of paper, and scribbling down a hastily, ill-thought-out response followed by the appointed date and Percival’s name.

By the time his owl was a brown blot in the sky, Credence’s stomach was tied in knots, and a light sheen of cold sweat covered his forehead.

 

Two days after receiving Percival’s letter, Credence woke up feeling like morning dew on a wild meadow. He rolled on his side, tightening the sheets around his frame, and stared at the vase of carnations, which appeared ever the livelier, untouched by death, brimming with passion and vigor. He sighed abashed as he realized his first coherent thought belonged entirely to Percival.

Credence recalled the night of the ball, the manly, luscious scent that pervaded the atmosphere encompassing Percival, his effortless sangfroid, the suavity of his voice when he approached Credence.

If he closed his eyes, he could see him, so clear, wearing a sharp three-piece suit, one hand buried in a pocket while the other nursed a cup of amber liquid to his lips. And his lips, oh god, they had grazed Credence’s skin with such sultry care.

With conviction.

Like the lips of a sinner pressed tenderly against the Lord’s crucifix come Good Friday.

Suddenly there was a light tapping on his window, and behind the glass a snowy-white owl ruffled its feathers, a small envelope held securely in its beak.

“Hello there, little birdie. Is this for me?” he asked conspiratorially, glad to have a living creature to confide his hope in, “Is it another note from the real Mr. Graves?”

The owl cocked its head to the side, and blinked twice.

“Are you his?”

But the owl, aloof to Credence’s surging excitement, flew off.

It was, in fact, another note from Percival. Credence stared at the creamy-white paper feeling every bone of his skeleton shudder with tight anticipation.

He ran his fingers over the smooth surface and opened it, savoring every passing second, drinking in every bend and angle of the words,

 

_Your image has made its dwelling on my mind. Be it night or day, you are always there, pulsing, like a muscle, a vein. Like the constant ticking of a clock.  And even though I see you, your touch remains an oasis in the distance. Was it real, the delicate feel of your hand against my lips? The sensation still lingers. It was a furtive, fleeting thing I longed to do since I saw you step into the hall._

_Fleeting, yes, but of no lesser importance because of it. See, at this rate, I fear I’ll soon forget my own name. I keep abandoning myself to the echo of your memory._

_The minutes seem longer today than any other day, and the sun, it tortures me with its never-ending brightness. Today I live only for the moon spilling its light upon your face._

_Is it a fool’s paradise to hope she may not always be the one to adorn your visage with rays of crème?_

 

Paying little heed to what he was doing, and absorbing every line written on the paper over and over, Credence wrapped a hand around his hardened length, ashamed of his state, but too lost in Percival’s words to care. He stroked lazily, tugging at the shaft with irregular pacing, halting or hastening in tandem to the lascivious visions his brain so eagerly provided.

He saw himself, knees scraped, face turned up in avid expectation and mouth hanging wide open, and looming above him, Percival, pleasuring himself with languid strokes, his hand wrapped firmly around the thickened member. Credence found himself whimpering at the imaginary sight of Percival’s laden sack, and the pitiful sounds broke something inside Percival, ripped the orgasm from him, tipping him off the ledge into a sea of utter elation, while abundant, lukewarm streams painted Credence’s face.

Credence came, lip bitten rough between his teeth, with Percival’s name smothering his throat, and spurts of cum staining his night clothes.

 

At seven o’clock that evening, Credence glanced out the window, and spotted a handsome figure apparating across the street. Checking his reflection one last time on the mirror, he hurried down the flight of stairs, and counted to fifteen before opening the door.

“Hi,” he said awkwardly as he fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, not daring to look quite straight ahead.

Percival was like a fiery star, and his radiance was treacherously blinding, especially in the black coat of night.

“Mr. Barebone,” Percival said as way of greeting, bowing his head in deference, or perhaps in a failed effort to hide his broad smile.

He offered his right arm for Credence to take, and down the street they walked until the mouth of an alley appeared at their left. Not without a previous warning from Percival and a tightening of his grip around Credence’s torso, the ground beneath their feet vanished, and darkness swallowed them whole only to spit them out into another, busier, avenue.

Credence was a skein ball of nerves. He wished to be done with their appointment, if that was a suitable name to call their rendezvous. His heart somersaulted up to his mouth when they entered the empty restaurant, but all noise was lost to him anyway, seeing as he could not listen past the rush of his own blood.

Taking his seat and perusing the extravagant menu, he recalled vividly that morning’s slip-up. Vaguely, he was accosted by the feel of pliant skin dragging along the inseam of his pants, the swipe of a thumb across his slit. And Percival. Percival’s provocative words, Percival’s voice resonating inside his brain, fondling him only with those gravel-gruff notes.

The situation was worsened by Percival’s solid presence just a few paces away. The atmosphere, undeniably charged with fizzing electricity, caused goosebumps to erupt all over Credence.

But his fears were, mostly, unfounded; delusions birthed by a zealous imagination.

It was just dinner. With Percival Graves.

Credence had to sit through three courses in utter agony. He felt the weight of Percival’s gaze on him, branding him as if an iron rod put to the fire. He was inescapable, even on an open terrace. His presence seemed to engulf Credence without the slightest hint of mercy. His scent, an intoxicating fume that clogged Credence’s lungs, and sat heavy on his lap.

Percival did most of the talking, but it wasn’t a particularly talkative experience anyhow. Sharing dinner in companionable silence with Percival was oddly pleasant, Credence thought.

Overlooking the yellowy veins of the city, Credence prayed for time to stretch a little longer, and for his shameful enthusiasm to wear off. Drifting from somewhere, the romantic chords of a Spanish guitar serenaded them.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Barebone?” Percival asked, leaving his dessert untasted. He stared at Credence openly from under a furrowed brow, confusion sprinkled with a tinge of chagrin.

Credence shook his head, and fixed his attention on the decadent share of cake before him. Pushing Percival to fill the silence without contributing beside a nod or a smile, while rejoicing in the continuous string of his silken words was inconsiderate to say the least.

Percival sighed, and tilted Credence’s face up with a finger, when he spoke there was a tone of defeat in his voice, “Have I been too insolent, Mr. Barebone? Presumed too much? Did I – did my notes --my attention-- offend you?”

Credence shook his head vigorously, and berated himself for giving off the wrong impression, “No, no! They were, uh… fine. _More_ than fine. I –I enjoyed reading them. You know I did,” he finished clumsily, leaning into the warmth of Percival’s open hand cradling his cheek.

To salvage the remains of their evening, he mustered all courage from his bones, and placing a chaste kiss on Percival’s palm added, “And you don’t have to call me like that either, you know. I’m just Credence.”

Though Percival’s eyes were obsidian oceans, they glinted with what could only described as hope, “Just Credence? No, no, never ‘just Credence’, sweet thing. Here, let me.”

He snatched the spoon from Credence, and scooped up a piece of the flavorful cake. Creamy, moist layers were joined precariously by gooey pink filling, and crowned by glazed strawberries.   

Credence opened his mouth, and accepted the proffered morsel. Red and pink and cream, just like the hues of his body and mind when he thought of Percival.

And Percival, like a dedicated lover instead of nearly a stranger, continued to feed spoonfuls of cake into Credence’s mouth. His dark eyes were glued to the commissures of Credence’s full lips, entranced by their parting and their closing, the disappearance of the silverware inside the velvet soft cave sodden with sugar, the tongue darting forward to collect a smudge of cream, and the toothy grin when embarrassment prevailed over Credence.

“Percival,” he said, after washing down the last piece of cake with a sip of his drink.

“Yes, dear?”

Credence hesitated at the sobriquet, feeling his throat bob pathetically. He was hungry for something he didn’t have the nerve to ask for, not when Percival’s tone was light and cheery, and anxiety threatened to splinter his own voice.

He was a lost cause, sinking in the quicksand of his own helplessness.

“May I tell you a secret, Credence?” Percival asked, cutting loose the taut rope of pregnant silence, and flooding Credence with relief and gratitude.

He nodded and leaned forward, hauled by the curl of Percival’s finger. This close the air around them turned into a humid and sizzling mass. Credence waited patiently, the pattern of his breathing slowing down to correspond Percival’s.

When Percival drew nearer, Credence felt his stomach drop.

When Percival’s lips caressed the shell of his ear, gliding like melted chocolate, Credence crossed his legs, and squeezed.

“I think,” said Percival calmly, “I will fall in love with you.”

The last thing Credence remembered after Percival’s confession was letting out a delighted gasp as he pressed his thighs even closer, and the fabric of his underpants scrubbed against the weeping head of his cock.

Like a picture-perfect gentleman, Percival took him home. His good night kiss was swift and exhilarating, and later that night, staring up at the ceiling, Credence couldn’t help touching the exact spot on his cheek where it had been bestowed.  

 

_Is it devilish to covet a saint’s deepest virtue?_

 

Credence agreed to meet Percival again one day after receiving the third note, that contained a single yet revolutionary line, not wanting to seem too eager. His head ached on the best of days, and on the worst, it wasn’t his head the one to do the hurting.

He had Percival embedded in his loins like a sweltering dagger.

Encouraged by Credence’s shy acceptance, the notes were now a daily occurrence, delivered by the same snow-white owl that was not actually Percival’s, but, according to the man, always fought others when the director ignored the more inconspicuous means of communication, which only occurred when the addressee was Credence.

On their second date Percival took Credence to a magically-hidden grove right in the heart of Central Park. Apparently, the Graves family owned a sizeable portion of the city, and it was only his legal right to lie down next to Credence on the grass, holding him in his arms once the twinkling blanket veiled the Sunday sky.

“The stars,” he said against Credence’s temple, “shine brighter here than anywhere else in the city.”

Credence nodded, pressing their bodies closer together, wanting Percival to know his feelings --his desires-- were wholly reciprocated. Granted, Credence was not a saint, but if any virtue resided in him, it was Percival’s to take. To take and to bite and to mark and to fuck.

He fancied himself a virgin land yearning to be conquered.

Percival looked downward, enticed by the fickle, dubitative motion of Credence’s hips, and caught sight of the bulge trapped under the fabric.

“Darling,” he said with fatherly kindness, with compassion softening his inflection at the end, as if he had neglected Credence. As if, somehow, he had failed him.

He parted his legs some, patting the inside of his thigh as an invitation for Credence to settle between them.

And Credence obeyed, cheeks blushing furiously, and skin tingling pleasantly, like the pinprick feel of a recently woken limb.

“Forgive me, little one.”

Underneath him Percival was half-hard and impossibly warm, the thickness of his cock, a maddening, rude punishment that coaxed kittenish mewls out of Credence’s throat. He canted his hips the tiniest bit, seeking to placate his arousal.

“Is it wrong if I do this?” asked Percival, as his hands splayed possessively over Credence’s ass.

He could feel himself thrumming, like a string being plucked by the deft fingers of a musician. He was ablaze, but he needed more of Percival. He needed all his words to leap from the paper and into life.

“No,” he managed to choke out.

Percival’s mouth sucked wet kisses on the side of his neck, right below his ear, where the swipe of his tongue felt like a wave of hot slick, like a drop of precum oozing illicitly.

“Darling mine,” Percival whispered in a croon, “sweet, sweet Credence.”

The night air was cool on Credence’s skin. The rustle of the wind swaying the leaves played softly in his ears, and tousled his hair. A rising spiral of his own pleased sighs enriched nature’s subtle tune as his toes curled with every kiss Percival donned on the sweep of his neck. Kisses that were soft like dandelion florets, and kisses that were meant to carve bleeding galaxies on his flesh.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the ground, pinned down by Percival’s weight, and face framed by both his hands.

Credence saw it before it happened. The seconds dragged leisurely, enhancing his senses into acuteness, and then he felt it for the first time: the softness of Percival’s lips pressed against the seam of his mouth, the warm insistence as they pried into his heat, and then the irrefutable victory of his tongue coalescing with his own in a most tender embrace.

All reason fled his mind as he turned to pulp under the spell of Percival’s kiss. He felt him everywhere, tugging at his hair, and gently pushing a clad thigh against the swell of his cock, stroking the fine roof of his mouth, and igniting a trail of fires that spread from the small of his back to his innermost region.

“You’re perfect.  So perfect, Credence,” he said catching his breath, after what could’ve been a century or a single minute, “Your lips are a fucking epiphany, baby. Fuck.”

Credence smiled enraptured. Above him, the most beautiful and kindhearted man longed to drink from his lips as if his mouth were the chalice that held the water of life, and if his body was a temple, it was just so Percival could defile it.

But he was never meant to be holy anyway.

Credence breathed in sharply, filling the hollow of his chest with the ethereal soul of the night. The brisk air burned the bridge of his nose on its way in.

At long last, the ground bared its scratchy roughness to him, and his fingers felt a tad numb, as did one side of his face, yet Percival remained a steady source of warmth. 

Propped on an elbow, his fingers carded the windswept mess of Credence’s hair, and his lips laid loving pecks all over Credence’s face.

Happily cocooned as he was, Credence felt sleep nibbling at the back of his eyes, and the heavy somnolence soon rippled like waves in a pond.

“Let’s take you home,” he heard Percival whisper.

Credence blinked owlishly into awareness, still affected by the leftovers of a long-drawn-out desire, but too sleepy to do much about them. It took him a moment to put together the meaning behind Percival’s statement, but then he nodded, and clung to Percival’s neck, burrowing his musky scent.

“Hold tight.”

The awful feeling of disapparating extinguished any lasting trace of lust in Credence, and like an underlying current, more patient and less volatile, it covered him with a flimsy film of slumber from under which definitions faded, and only touch mattered.

Drowsiness pilfered false modesty as Credence lay on the bed, a lazy cat lounging on a warmed-up windowsill on a sunny day, watching Percival with bleary eyes.

Percival took off Credence’s shoes, and looked back at him, and he nodded. Percival took off Credence’s shirt, and looked back at him, and he nodded. Percival took off Credence’s trousers, and looked back at him, and he said, “Sleep with me tonight.”

When he woke up the window was slightly open, late morning sunshine creeping in, and the other side of his bed vacant but for a piece of paper,

 

_May my days be long to sow kisses_

_And my nights endless to reap moans_

 

Credence loved the slow dance they danced. Lured gently into temptation, crazed by pounding passion, but barely dipping their toes, lungs full of water.

He cherished Percival for who he was, and who Credence became when he was near him. Ecstatic, always ready to burst, always on the brink of laughing or sighing or falling off his axis. He was falling, Credence realized, with steeping fervor, and there was no going back, no wanting to go back.

Deeper and deeper, he fell. He was fed kisses and touches, light strokes and frenzied strokes, atop sheets or under archways, but the ache didn’t relent and only grew, in the back of his throat, in the pit of his belly, in the spine-tingling furnace where Percival would fit so tight. Tight and tumid, and scalding hot.

His muscles, stirred by his mind, strained and stiffened. Anticipation rolled to gather at his groin, and there, the same damn emptiness, the despairing realization that once again he was preyed upon by inexorable libido, but so far away from Percival, so out of reach.

The constant muddle of desire clouding his brain made him dizzy. He wasn’t quite himself these days, always teetering like a threadbare cloth, expecting the lightest of breezes to carry him off, to swivel him out of his febrile reverie. And that breeze he called Percival, moving him, choking him, coursing through his veins, engorging his cock, heavy globs leaking; dripping from abused lips. Needed in peril of death, yearned for. Percival. Whose titillating eloquence seeped like sap in the marrow of his bones, who focused on the freckle marking the jut of his hip, and failed to stare back into the heated abyss of his own creation.

Credence wanted to sing him songs with his mouth closed.

He wanted it now. Like the lymph suffusing his insides, filling his vessels, and cleansing his nodes. But it wasn’t a want, it was a need. A need to gouge a grotto for Percival to fit inside, feel him groan, and listen to him lunge; loop both legs like clasps behind Percival’s back, and pull and tow and yank, take.

 

_I miss the sound of your voice, sweetest creature._

_Warm and wet._

_It drips with a plop;_

_\- it swills with a swoosh;_

_-does it come with a squelch_

_?_

 

Percival’s apartment was much more spacious and luxurious than Credence’s, but that was only to be expected. It passed fair judgement over the city skyline perched from its high throne, and just like its sole inhabitant, exuded puissance, a je ne sais quoi that slithered stealthily under one’s skin, and simmered.

Credence treaded with light step as he made his way into Percival’s room, being kissed into near oblivion, the latter’s hand resting on the slope of his tailbone while the other carried a bottle of aged mead.

“Percival, ah— “he said gasping for air, running his hands through the silver-streaked hair, “Percival, _”_ he insisted, breaking the stolen kiss, and stumbling on bare feet.

Percival chuckled, hugging him tighter, swaying ridiculously to a fictional tune, and nipping the sensitive lobe of his ear, “Yes, dear?”

Credence pressed their foreheads together, felt the suds burst and spout, that ebullience, heaving like a maelstrom in the most intimate part of his being. He stood ready to flounder in the arms of death only to breathe back life straight from Percival’s mouth.        

“I’m yours,” he said, feeling the weight of his words hovering in the tepid gap where skin did not touch, “I am… yours.”

He waited quiet, rooted on the spot by Percival’s unwavering stare, heartbeat dry and stone-like. Craving to be understood. Hoping.

Wanting.

Percival understood, lastly willing to peel the layers of innocence off Credence’s shoulders, to dunk him deep in the fountain of hedonism, and let him be born-again from the ashy throes.

He stalked forward, guiding Credence farther inside the room, a feline refinement to his kindled hunger, and kissed the keen line of his jaw with devotion. A clink, the bottle being put on the gilt console table.

His nimble fingers unbuttoned Credence’s shirt, silently, with opulent skill. One by one, the buttons surrendered.

Credence was dimly aware of his surroundings other than the oceanic bed that was soft as a tuft of feathers. Joy overflowed him, nonetheless. Under Percival’s ministrations it was impossible not to feel like a cloudburst. Each discarded garment had him thawing further, turning into a viscous matter, and Percival knew, for he nibbled kisses on his collar bone, and squeezed the globes of his bare ass, hands venturing closer to the cleft where the heat burned warmer.

Yet Percival’s brain seemed to compete with his mouth. While the latter sucked ardent kisses all over Credence’s chest, teasing the hardened knobs of his nipples and gliding along the milky path of his sternum, the former professed steamed admiration with words that penetrated Credence’s flesh, and coiled in the hollow of his gut, unfurling their edges, stretching wide open, awaiting the painful stoke of a bulbous head.

“Pretty little thing,” Percival said, rolling the syllables on the tip of his tongue, “I’ve been dying since we met --sinking. I’ve been sinking, but not where I want. Right here,” his finger probed the tight, fluttering muscle, and Credence let out a shameless moan.

“There,” he agreed eagerly, twisting and crumpling the sheets, “Percival, there. I want you in me. I want – I want you to fuck me.”

Percival beamed, and ecstasy decanted from his lips as they brushed the inside of his thigh, a butterfly-soft graze, an ephemeral little thing, just like the kiss he had placed on the back of Credence’s hand that night at the ball. 

“Supple mounds of milky white,” he said, kneading the flesh in his hands, “and a pink blossom... Will you bloom under my touch, Credence, will you unfold your rosy petals to welcome my cock, hm?”

Credence felt the press of something slimy against his entrance, slippery and thick, curling and thrusting, tugging at his rim. The sudden sting gave way to the bizarre feeling at the intrusion. He pushed down, eager to have his hole swallow the whole length of Percival’s digit.

He was aflame, inside and out, set on fire by Percival’s touch, delving into a river of words and feelings, and oh, Percival so close, so overwhelming, reaching the confines that he himself did not know.

“Baby,” Percival said, claiming Credence’s attention, “open up for me, love. Unfurl that little bud.”

A finger became two, and then three, and Credence discovered with brazen delight that his voice rang with angelic grace when Percival fingered him like strings on an ancient cithara. A seraph, inflamed by fiery spear, imploding into a bountiful spring of condensed bliss. And he was ready, open and pliant, ready to receive the blunt head of Percival’s cock inside his hole.

Percival kissed his lower belly, and lapped, rather enthusiastically, at the weeping slit of his cock, lips wrapping around the oozy mess, and then moaned at the taste, seemingly marveled by the flavor, the feel.

If Credence listened very close, he could make out the fragile sound of his eyes rolling back into his head, vision obscuring and blurring, body standing precariously on the edge of a precipice, insides all hollowed out.

He screamed because it was too much, and Percival didn’t stop, only kissed him again there, purply-pink tip, girdling the head foremost, then the rest of the length. A few inches, the wet pop of his lips, and then the whole shaft, casing it in the smooth pouch of his mouth. Credence tittered, demented by pleasure. He was light as a feather, and just as disembodied. He quivered, the concentric vibrations disheveling the pitch of his voice, and his whines cascaded across the polished floors.

Like flying, untethered, free at long last. He came heavily down Percival’s bobbling throat, suckled dry with worshipping devoutness.

Having not even regained his breath, Credence sensed the weight of Percival’s erection gliding smoothly against his taint, sliding along the slick canal, and catching every so often on his rim.

It felt so good his knees bent inwards, seeking to mollify the lecherous heat, but Percival spread them wide open. And wider still.

When Percival entered him, it was using a single, languid thrust, impaling himself into the tight ring of muscle that struggled not to cave in, reluctant to be so thoroughly violated. But Percival’s push was steady. It neither swayed, nor falter. A constant, indefatigable torrent of push push push.

Credence could not stop his legs from collapsing, and shortly felt the fond touch of fingertips brushing sweaty strands off his forehead. He was red and pink and every other candent shade under the sun. He squirmed at the weight of Percival’s erection sitting snugly inside his hole, feeling himself contract around the fat girth as if asking for more, still hungry. Ever greedy.

“Percival,” he sighed, blissed out on sensory delight.

“My boy, my sweet boy,” Percival replied, hips static but lips claiming the plane range of Credence’s clavicle.

After further distraction, he began his pace by pulling back slowly. The receding drag of skin against skin was infuriating and earth-shattering, like being yanked back in time, feeling the present run through one’s fingers until one was just a mere dot of light floating somewhere, forsaken. Suddenly, like a universe exploding into existence, Percival rammed back inside, with force, grazing a spot inside Credence that made every cell in his body bloom. He was the flowers and the bees and the sun and the mist. He was dew on the grass, he was sowed and reaped by Percival’s own hand, nipped at the stem, showered with glee. He was and he wasn’t, existing in two places at once.

The vulgar pounding of their flesh, that damp, concave echo that eased the rubbing, led Credence to embrace Percival even closer within.

They were the highest note, that sylphic treble in a melody just before it drops.

Percival moved with purpose, one knee serving as leverage, as he continued varying the angle of his drive, as if to keep Credence guessing, as if to steal his soul away from his body.

“I want to consume all of you, baby… You,” he groaned broken, dazed, head slumping in earnest capitulation, “you thing of beauty.”

Credence’ eyes swam as if thrown inside a well. He saw Percival shrouded in vibrant halo, divine radiance tracing his outlines; clear, as if cut right out of a page, a suggestive message construed to captivate the coldest of hearts, ravishing and unapologetic.

Percival prodded forward, stretching out anew the heated tightness, forcing the tissue to take in the full length of his engorged cock. Credence felt his insides shiver in a self-fabricated illusion in which he was a flower being pollenated, the golden stamen sucked out of sweet nectar, and the world swirled in a whorl of bright colors, the mattress sank under the weight of their bodies. They were a timeless poem being written and rewritten, he the blank page, and Percival the quill that spawned rivers of ink, inspired by that, the oldest of muses.

Credence wheezed, his breath stuck somewhere between his fifth rib and his heart. Percival, in to the hilt, relented the rate of his thrusts, ebbing softly, untangling the knot of hysterical pleasure, and pulling backward until just scant inches of him remained logged in. Pleasure, hitherto a distressing swirl, thinned out into a fine thread ready to snap.

“I saw you and I knew,” Percival said, having bit Credence’s lower lip like the juiciest and sweetest of fruits, “I knew you were the one for me.”

And didn’t Credence know that too, at that very same moment? That Percival Graves would be the man to topple down his walls, and crack open the ground beneath his soles, to slake his parched lips with tart milk, and pacify the doubts and fears and needs of a lifetime. He had known too, back then, that there would be no safest refuge than the crook of Percival’s neck, and this primal embrace, so mundane and inconsequential for some, it was right, for them. Inevitable.  

Behind closed lids, Credence could think very little, struck dumb by the passion broiling in his lower half. And it was thrilling, new, fresh. Percival stuttered above him, only for an instant, brow creased, eyes shut tight, his mouth forming a lovely O shape.

Credence knew Percival was close, about to meet him on that cusp encrusted in gurgling-wet shards, both on their way to savor the kiss of death, and come back to life, happier, full.

He was close too, again, so damn close of falling and sinking and flying.

He locked his ankles behind Percival, and cupped his face bringing it close to his, drinking sweet dampness from his mouth, and yielding to the clever tongue.

They kissed until his lungs were stuffed, and his body hurt. Until Percival’s shoves became almost violent, ruthless. Credence eagerly swallowed the growls and sighs as the flaying lashes of orgasm coursed all through Percival.

And Credence didn't come so much as resurfaced, gulping great mouthfuls of air as the weight of Percival rested heavy atop him. His skin glowed with a playful tickle, and his heart was a rampant beast, sinking sharp teeth in the bars of its cage. Their still joined bodies pulsed at a same beat, free-falling into elation. 

Credence circled both arms around the span of Percival's back, whispering in his ear the same way the latter had done when entering him.

There was an undeniable satisfaction in knowing he had made this to Percival, mighty and supernal. The one to hoist and sheath Percival. The one to inspire such beautiful, famished words from the tip of Percival's pen. 

For weeks, the want to feel Percival's hands roaming his body had tormented him, plagued his every waking hour, and turned him into a soupy mess, stewing but never quite boiling.

That fever, that spirited itch was gone, like powdered sugar dissolving on the tongue.

Credence waddled through the muddy afterglow, pulling Percival with him, pressing soft pecks on his cheek and the corner of his mouth. 

He basked in the knowledge that they weren't made of only fire and thirst, that there was a treacly, franker, feeling drawing them close. 

"Hey," he said, prompting a response from a fully contented Percival. It was a face he wasn't acquainted with, not until then. The face of a man who could die without regrets, but was too happy to kiss life goodbye, "Hey," he said again, nudging his side.

Percival frowned in feigned annoyance, kissing the space between his eyelids before extricating himself from the heated heap of limbs, "Yes, dear?" Percival replied finally, charming as ever, or, arguably, even more so. 

"You're heavy," Credence grumbled, forgoing what he had intended to say. 

Percival scolded him with an ice-cold stare, and in a flat, matter-of-fact voice answered, "Of course I am, Credence. It's muscle."

Credence looked him over, disregarding the sinewy chest and toned ridges, and poked his belly. 

"Right."

"But you— “Percival cupped his face, overcome with that irrational, coddling affection “You are something else, aren’t you?" he said, cleaning away the sticky mess with a flick of his wrist. He leaned down to nuzzle at Credence's softened length and the lightly dusted base, and, like a Wampus cat, pounced up to lay on his chest. Credence laughed, trying to fight him off, but Percival _was_ heavy.

A dull ache stung between Credence's legs with the effort.

Unfortunately, Percival did not fall into the category of acquired tastes, mouth-watering upon first sight, Credence never did stand a chance. 

"Hush! I would compare you to honey, but I’m afraid you are much sweeter." 

Credence rolled his eyes mortified, "Why do you write, and say… that stuff?" he asked curiously, waving vaguely in the air due to his inability to elaborate on the topic without blushing crimson red.

"What? What is _this_?" Percival retorted, emulating Credence's gesture with an amused smirk. 

"Percival!"

Percival roared with laughter then, delighted by Credence’s endearing coyness. Out of kindness, or pity, he inhaled deeply several times, and calmed down his laugh.

"Because you are a delight, Credence. Because it's a miracle we are here right now, because you--" he said, biting the lean side of a shoulder, "drive me wild." 

Credence blinked, somewhat slack-jawed, "Wild?"

"Like a fucking animal, baby,” Percival cleared his throat, and did not speak until Credence dared stare back into his eyes without recoiling. When he spoke, it was in soft tones, savoring each word before etching them onto Credence,

“Long alabaster legs that enclose me,

plump cherry lips bursting ripe,

a satiny field to plant my seed in --dye my little lover in white.

His eyes --all pupil-- black like the dead of night,

his voice, sheer and sweet, tastes of rosewater and, yes, paradise,

and his skin, ah! A meadow of sun-drenched lilies,

\--but also a good fucking ride;

So,

yes, darling, yes!

For him I go wild."

Credence had grown hotter with every muttered word, due to either embarrassment or mirth at the seductive absurdity of the situation. Reading Percival's notes was always an exercise in shame and arousal, but hearing them spoken out loud (more impassioned than the paper could ever convey), seconds from being thought of, made Credence wish he could hide forever, from Percival or with him, he didn’t know.

For the time being though, he reached towards the console, grasping for the bottle and the cups of glass, and poured two shares of mead, even if he wasn’t much of a drinker.

The taste was rich and earthy, sweet but crisp and a little bit dry.

He leaned forward, pressing his lips flush on Percival’s mouth. Liquid spilled over the bedsheets and dribbled down their chins, truly honeyed bodies, poetry be damned.

“You know,” he said, “you too drive me wild.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> my submission for the gradence Guess Who challenge! All participating authors can be found [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Anonymous_Fic_Game/profile)
> 
> I welcome yall to guess who I am, and beg you tell me what's giving me away ;)


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